Falling Proud
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: It's the case of the Detective and the Pathologist, and it takes nearly twenty years for Sherlock to finally solve it. The results bring him both peace and happiness, but in a life like his, are happy ever afters even possible? Warning, character death. Very sad. Rated hard T for some language.


_Disclaimer_: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks as always for her beta to the imcomparable Katya Jade. Completely random, just came to me though the title's from a Mocheeba song. I must caution you, however, it's quite sad. Hope you enjoy it anyway, feedback always appreciated.

**FALLING PROUD**

He doesn't realise until two months after the Moriarty Hoax that things have changed.

_And by the time he has, she's already so far gone that he can't undo it, even if he thought he wanted to (which he does not)._

He notices it the first time when he comes into St. Bart's to perform some tests for the Dancing Velociraptor Case (_John chose the title_) and Molly doesn't smile at him as she normally does. In fact, she barely glances at him when he enters, and it's not so much that she's purposefully not looking at him (which would indicate annoyance) as she doesn't feel the need to look at him (which would indicate disinterest).

This, however, is impossible, Sherlock knows: There will never come a moment when Molly Hooper is disinterested in him. _That is not ego talking, it is a fact._ The pathologist was willing to help him fake his death and disappear, she was willing to face down the psychotic and delusional fan who tried to resurrect Moriarty's network in order to keep him in the country. She has faced danger, pain and more insults than she knows what to do with, and she has always maintained her interest in, her attachment to, him.

He cannot imagine a situation which would cause that to change, any more than he can imagine waking up one day and being normal.

And yet, everything about her reaction to him, from her facial expressions to her body language, suggests a… cooling of feeling. Not anger or distancing, more genuine lack of interest.

_It's most perplexing, and Sherlock decides that he likes it not at all._

He doesn't know what to make of it, but he has been back long enough to realise that something is the matter, and in the balance of probabilities he knows it's more likely his fault. So he scans back through his recent interactions with her, finds nothing. Not that that necessarily means there is nothing to find: He has often had to have inappropriate or apology-worthy behaviour pointed out by somebody else, usually John. But John is busy with his new wife and son, busy building the family Sherlock shot Magnusson to protect. He cannot be called upon, willy-nilly, to explain Molly Hooper's moods.

Sherlock supposes he could ask her, but that might give her the impression that he wants her to resume her previous behaviour towards him, and he doesn't like the idea of her thinking that. He may not have been terribly impressed with Tom "Meat Dagger," Jenkins but he was happy that she was moving on with her life. He was happy that she had found someone who wasn't a sociopathic genius with whom to share her heart. He may not feel for her what she feels for him but he wants her to have every good thing in life, he knows she deserves it-

She brushes by him, humming to herself, her nose buried in a report, and he feels a tug of something, something… irksome within him. Something he isn't rightly sure he has a name for.

He watches her go and tells himself it's nothing, but he can't help the odd feeling that something in his world is about to shift.

* * *

It's Mary- of course- who figures it out.

Mainly because she employs the unprecedented and outlandish method of actually asking Molly what's going on.

What she has to report is surprising, and it is made even worse by the sympathy with which she shares it. Really, Sherlock thinks, a government-trained killer should be incapable of putting that amount of empathy into her voice, let alone thinking of holding his hand as she breaks bad news. But that is exactly what Mary does, and for once she isn't even trying to wind him up: She's genuinely worried about how he'll take what she has to say. Because apparently, in the fury and furore of Moriarty's fake return, Sherlock neglected to do two things which were entirely necessary for the new, confident Molly Hooper of today not to think him an arsehole.

Firstly, he did not apologize to her for his crack over her broken engagement, or indeed for his relapse (though, it being for a case, he's not entirely sure why she's angry).

And secondly, he did not say a word to her regarding his false engagement to Janine.

And it was this, Mary says, which has done the damage. Because though Molly now knows that it was a smokescreen for Sherlock's plan, that knowledge has made her more wary of him, not less. Mary says that Ms. Hooper has had what alcoholics refer to as a "moment of clarity," regarding him, because if he couldn't see anything wrong in fooling an innocent woman into thinking she was in love with him, what else was he capable of? Was he still playing Molly, even now? Was that how his interactions with her actually worked? Sherlock listens with a strange mixture of anger, petulance and defensiveness sloshing around inside him. He doesn't know why, but the notion that Molly is disappointed in him and no longer trusts him annoys him a good deal more than he would like.

_Not that he would ever do anything so asinine as stating that out loud._

But Mary seems to know it without him saying. She watches him, those clever, bright eyes taking in everything. As sometimes happens when he is around John's wife, he has the uncomfortable feeling that she's looking right through him, and although she appears to like what she sees it still makes Sherlock uncomfortable. A little sick to his stomach, in point of fact. So he says his thank-yous and goodbyes, leaves the flat as quickly as possible. He walks home, needing to stretch his legs, he tells himself, needing to work this out. Needing to see if he can get away with the little inner voice telling him that he has lost Molly Hooper's trust and that such a thing is more than a Bit Not Good.

He comes into St. Bart's early the next day. Brings her favourite flowers and apologises.

She accepts it after a couple of pointed questions regarding his sobriety- But she still doesn't regain her interest in him for the rest of the day.

And when she leaves that night, she barely says goodbye.

* * *

She starts dating soon after, and although Sherlock takes this a good sign- she needs to get over Tom, after all- he finds that he dislikes her choice of dates.

Because though she does indeed appear to have a physical type- _tall, clever, slimly-built and dark haired_- none of the men she sees look anything like Sherlock aside from those cursory similarities. Indeed, she seems to seek out men who look less and less like him with each date. There's Tony, a paramedic saving to put himself into medical school who she meets at one of Sherlock's crime-scenes. There's Jamie, the barrister nephew of an elderly woman whose family request an autopsy and with whom she apparently, immediately, (miraculously) clicks. There's Simon, who owns his own delivery business and Ciarán, who's training to be an animator. There's a Bob somewhere in there, and a Matthew, and even- though Sherlock's not entirely certain, he deletes the details of Molly's dates as soon as he meets them- a Russian businessman called Ivan. That each man is tall, thin, dark and intelligent goes without saying; That none of them bear even the most passing resemblance to him is also obvious. _And Sherlock finds that this is really starting to hack him off._ He does not like the fact that she appears to be changing her preference, when for so long she and her crush on him have been one of the few dependable points in his life-

When he shares this information with John however, the doctor smacks him on the back of the head. Hard. He's been taking lessons from the Mrs., apparently.

"I know it's difficult but check your ego at the door, Sherlock," Watson tells him. "If she's no longer looking for clones of you then that means she's getting over you- Properly, this time. Wish her well."

He leans into him and lowers his voice.

"If you don't want her then that's fine, but at least let her find someone who actually does. And stop being a prat about it."

John's words stay with Sherlock long after he closes the case. (_It was, inconceivably, Ms. Scarlett in the parlour with a candle-stick. Who'd have thought it?_) They stick with him as he walks home and they stick with him as he practices his violin. They stick with him as he ponders his next case, they stick with him when he goes into St. Bart's the next day and jokes with Molly, smiles at her. They stick with him as he walks home, alone, again and again and again. They stick with him for days, weeks, before he is finally willing to think about their potential import.

By the time he does however, it's already too late.

Because by the time he does, Molly has moved from looking for a replacement for him, to finding one.

And this one- This one is far more than a substitute for Sherlock Holmes.

This one is a viable replacement.

* * *

_His name is Nick Stanning and he is, Sherlock has not a doubt, the most irritating man on the planet._

Not because of anything he has done, you understand, but because Molly smiles at him the way she used to smile at Sherlock.

She pays attention to him the way she used to pay attention to Sherlock.

She loves him, the way she used to love Sherlock.

_And it is only when he sees this that the Great Detective realises how much he liked being loved by Molly Hooper._

Yes, it could be awkward and embarrassing. And yes, he had not the slightest notion how to deal with it. But is had been… comforting. Pleasant, in a strange way. And, he is now forced to admit, it had been something which he had assumed would continue indefinitely. Something which he would always have. Because even the engagement to Tom hadn't seemed like a threat, not when the poor boy was so clearly standing in for Molly's real interest. In a weird way it had been like having a mutual secret, one which made Molly happy in the way so few of the secrets she's kept for Sherlock have.

But Stanning? Stanning's his own person, and he shows not the slightest indication of being a stand-in for the Great Detective. Any more than he shows intimidation in the face of Molly's former crush. He's kind, considerate, patient. He takes time over Molly, spoils her, and for someone so used to being relegated to the background of life, this behaviour is like catnip for Ms. Hooper. And the most annoying thing? _Sherlock can find nothing wrong with him._ He's a former soldier, just back from a tour in Afghanistan. Since his returns he's resumed his earlier work as a counsellor with kids going through addiction issues and such a job essentially makes his ego bullet-proof: No amount of needling or teasing from Sherlock will ever make him doubt his importance or skill. The man literally helps to make the world a better place and he does it not for ego or boredom, but because he wants to help other people. Because he _cares_ about them.

He is so like Molly in this way that it sometimes makes Sherlock a little ashamed of himself when he's rude to him.

The feeling never lasts- he's still a higher-functioning sociopath- but he supposes it's a mark of how far he's come, that he can feel it at all.

Mary understands it, though John doesn't. The new Mrs. Watson is in many ways more like Sherlock than her husband: She knows the burden of always seeing what's meant to be hidden, of always being several steps ahead of everyone else. _It's what's kept her alive all these years._ And when she stares at Sherlock, and Molly, and Stanning, the detective sees in her eyes that she understands what's going on. That she knows more about the situation than she'd ever say. Because unlike her husband, she can sympathise with Sherlock's self-centredness in this. After all, though she knew it would bring danger to John, she's still gone and married him. She found something she wanted and she was greedy in its acquisition; The only difference is that she has made John happy, and Sherlock knows that he cannot say the same about Molly and himself. So he keeps his opinions to himself more and more, tries to force himself to let his pathologist be happy-

And then Stanning goes and does the unthinkable. The unforgivable.

He gets a job in Edinburgh, and he asks Molly to come with him and she. Says. Yes.

She hands in her notice at St. Bart's, packs up her desk and agrees to disappear off to the wilds of Scotland- _On purpose_. Sherlock really didn't think her that much of an idiot, but what does he know? After all, he didn't figure out he was in love with her until the moment he heard she was leaving, but leaving she is.

And she will, he has the frightening suspicion, take something of his, some important, vital piece of him, with her.

* * *

He's at the going away party for one drink, and he doesn't say goodbye.

Over the next year he buys five tickets to Edinburgh, but he never uses any of them.

He's invited to the christening of Molly's daughter eighteen months after she leaves, and though John and Mary travel for the occasion, Sherlock finds himself a case which requires all his time. That it is a mere six is unimportant.

He does note when John returns with photos that the child has her mother's eyes.

He never admits it, but there's a photo of Molly and her daughter in Baker Street, and not even Mrs. Hudson has ever found where it resides.

* * *

Six years pass, then seven. A blink of an eye, it seems, and eight have gone by.

John has another child, Jen, to keep young Alex company. Three months after her arrival he buries the wife who gave her life to save him, Sherlock and her children from the apparently resurrected- and supremely angry- Sebastian Moran.

John and Sherlock both grieve, but life continues at Baker Street, though it changes in increments. John refuses to bring his children to live there- it's too small, apparently- and Mrs. Hudson spends more and more time with her new "friend," Mr. Gupta from down the road. Eventually she moves in with him, though she visits Sherlock every day. She also manages to find a tenant for her flat in Billy Wiggins, though the young man seldom spends much time there, and Sherlock knows the less said about that, the better.

_The more things change_, he sometimes thinks, _the more they stay the same._

And so the seasons turn, murders and blackmails and thefts vie for Holmes's attention. Lestrade is promoted away from field work and Sally Donovan takes his place; Though they do not get along, he and Donovan manage to create a stable working relationship. She is far less likely to call on Sherlock, but that only means that the cases she does bring him in on are more often than not nines or tens. Lestrade still pops in to see him sometimes, bringing with him his new partner. This woman- Kathy- seems besotted with her "silver fox," and since Sherlock can find no evidence of cheating on her part, he allows himself to be happy for his friend.

_It's all really rather…mundane._

Mycroft marries, though it is obvious to Sherlock that it is merely for show. He does however manage to provide their mother with her dearest wish, producing a grandchild within a year of tying the knot and successfully getting the pressure off his younger brother for life. If asked- and he often_ is_ asked, by said maternal figure- Sherlock would say that he has never thought about having children. But that would not be entirely accurate: There have been times, disconcerting, unexpected, occasionally inebriated times, when he has found himself picturing that photo of Molly's little daughter and wondering what she would look like had she his blue eyes. Had she his dark curls. What she felt like to hold, whether she looks like her mother today. Whether she made that mother happy, happier than she was when he knew her, happier than he knows he could have made her, misshapen and unhelpful and emotionally twisted as he is-

In the cold light of day he looks on such aberrant thoughts as mawkish. _Sentimental._

In the cold light of day, he can be that rational, calculating machine John knows.

But nobody, not even he, can spend their entire life in the cold light of day. And so he can still tell you Molly Stanning's address and what she's doing with herself, just as he can still tell you what her favourite food, colour, and scalpel was, nearly ten years after they last met. He can still recall every conversation they had before she left, and he can still tell you what perfume she liked to wear. Because she's still inside him, still part of him, he, the man who thought he would never lose her. He, the man who thought she would be his for life.

_The reality turned out to be quite the opposite, he is well aware._

So imagine his surprise when one day, without any warning, without any attention paid to Sherlock Holmes or his wants or needs or desires at all, Molly Stanning- nee Hooper- wanders back into his life just like she'd never left it. She brings with her a daughter and a buried husband, and a life away from higher-functioning sociopaths and the heartache they produce. Sherlock greets her in St. Bart's- she's been brought back in as head of the department- and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself nervous. Stammering.

_The years have been very kind to her_, he thinks.

He asks her to dinner at Baker Street before he can stop himself, and despite her surprise, she only hesitates a moment before she accepts.

"It'll be nice to catch up," she tells him.

Sherlock could have told her that he never outran her to begin with, but for once in his life, he elects to hold his peace.

* * *

The dinner is an unmitigated disaster: He burns everything.

Chicken. Vegetables. The rings on the hob.

He could be wrong, but he thinks he even manages to burn the water he's using to cook, and chemist that he is, he suspects that's physically impossible.

Molly laughs, and the fact that she seems to find this hilarious amuses him not at all. _He's supposed to be romancing her, dammit_. He's supposed to be impressing her. But she just smiles at him, warm and familiar, and they order take-away- There's still a great Chinese down the road from Baker Street, and Sherlock can still guess the fortunes in the fortune cookies. She brought a bottle of wine and Sherlock now understands why it's wise to let her drink a glass, wise to let her loosen her inhibitions like this. They talk and they laugh and it's wonderful, but he puts her in a taxi at 11pm, insists she text him when she gets home. She has a child now, someone who counts on her, and life with John's family has taught him how important being reliable is.

Besides, he- He can't collate all the data he's collected with her here.

He can't work out how he feels and what he wants unless he gets some space.

So he goes out walking- He'd run, but he's not as young as he once was, and besides, seeing him running usually sets every copper in London on high alert. He makes his way down along the Thames to the Embankment, watching the sky turn from black to navy to blue, watching the garish lights which pick out Parliament fade with the pale invasion of day. When he can't walk anymore he catches the tube to Hampstead, lets himself into John's flat with his spare key. He sits down on the sofa to await the family's waking, and when he opens his eyes again he finds little Jen Watson curled up in her Uncle Sherlock's lap, her long, blond plait swaying slightly in time with her breath. John pads in, Alex and his elbow, and picks up his daughter. Takes her to bed. He and Alex share a look and Alex heads outside to play footie with the local kids, leaving his father and his best friend alone.

John takes one look at him and guesses where he's been.

"Took you long enough," he tells Sherlock.

Holmes shrugs. Stretches. He always finds it so calming, being at the Watsons'.

"I knew her for nearly a decade before she left," he points out. "It's been nearly a decade since I saw her." His mouth twists into a grim smile. "Sometimes I'm a pillock: That's hardly news."

John's look in shrewd. "So what's the pillock going to do about it, then?" he asks.

Sherlock shrugs. There's no-one else left alive he'd admit this to, but John Watson is his best friend and he needs to tell him the truth. So- "I don't know how to court someone, John," he says simply. He sighs, puffs out a breath. For the first time in a long time, he feels old. "In fact, I'm not even certain she'll let me. You know, court her." He shakes his head. "She's had some experience with a proper partner now, I somehow doubt a high-functioning sociopath measures up against that- But still, I want to try."

John shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock," he says. "I know how you feel about her, but she might not be able to feel those things again. She probably won't. And even if she does… sentiment's not really your area." He levels an assessing gaze at him. "I honestly think the only two females I've ever seen you get along with are my Jen and my Mary. Mrs. Hudson too, but she's not really a woman to you, is she? And in the beginning, we both know that you put up with the Watson girls because of me-"

Sherlock holds up a hand to silence him. "I liked Mary for her own sake," he points out. "And I know Jen and I got off on the wrong foot-" He lost her on an outing to Hampstead Heath when she was eight months old- "But we have since managed to repair our relationship quite nicely, I think." He grins. "She's so much quicker on the uptake than you, it's quite entertaining."

John shoots him a dark look. "You only think that because she helps with your experiments."

Sherlock shrugs. "You used to help with my experiments: I'm just continuing a family tradition."

And he smiles, remembering those early days in St. Bart's, him, John and Molly-

_Molly. The reason he's here. The reason he's confused now._

As quickly as it came, his lightness fades: He doesn't know what to do about his feelings, and he still does not.

John sees it, catalogues it without his having to state it.

There are truly wonderful upsides to a friendship as close as theirs.

John sighs. "Okay," he says, "Here's my advice, for what it's worth. Talk to Molly. Ask her whether she'd feel comfortable with your pursuing her. And if she says no then take her at her word-" Holmes tries to look affronted, but neither he nor his friend actually buy it. _Again, there are some wonderful upsides to a friendship as close as theirs_. "Treat her with respect, listen to her, make sure she's happy," Watson is saying. "Try, as best as you can, not to be a berk. And for God sake, spend some time with her kid: If you and the daughter can't get along then no relationship with Molly is going to succeed, do you hear me, Sherlock?"

Holmes nods. "Yes."

He is significantly less intimidated by this advice than he once would have been.

_But then losing someone you love just as you realise you love them will do that to a man._

"Good." John stands, claps him on the back. "Now I have to go take Alex to the school five a side this morning: Can you watch Jen for a bit?"

Sherlock nods. Everyone in this house pulls their weight and he is no exception.

"Good," John says. "Then I'll see you at two. And don't eat everything in the fridge again: I have two kids, I'm not feeding another."

Sherlock smiles and nods and watches his best friend take off with his son.

He goes up to Jen's bedroom and makes sure she's asleep, and then he sits and stares at his mobile phone for an hour until he can bring himself to send a text.

* * *

The text turns into a conversation, the conversation into a date.

The date turns into another, and another and another, until three months later, Sherlock's sitting in Molly's flat, (ineptly) helping her make pasta while her daughter Grace watches.

He suspects that Grace knows he'll be sleeping over tonight- another first- and he really, really wants to make sure she's alright with it.

_After all, he now knows the damage upset can do to a child, having watched the Watsons lose their mother._

But the meal comes off without a hitch- that's what happens when Molly cooks- and he gets along surprisingly well with the little girl. She's as bright as her mother but sharper, harder around the edges, and he finds that he likes that about her. She can be precocious, obnoxious even, but that he also has experience with: both Alex and Jen Watson inherited their mother's brains, along with their father's big heart and concomitantly massive mouth. So even when Grace politely informs him- as her mother steps out to check the trifle- that he had better watch himself and treat her mum right, Sherlock finds himself more impressed than anything-

_She has her mother's brown eyes but her father's gumption, he can see it, and with nine years between his spiriting Molly away and now, Sherlock can finally forgive Nick Stanning his theft._

Grace goes to bed promptly at ten, having spent the evening being entertained by stories of Sherlock's adventures. Again, having had time to practice on the Watsons means that he now knows how to edit some of the things he's been up to for a child's enjoyment. Though she tries to give no sign of it, he suspects that Grace may like him. She kisses his cheek when she says goodnight, and she smiles back at her mum as she closes the door. Sherlock listens to her thunder upstairs to her room, watching Molly's soft, fond grin out of the corner of his eye. As soon as she's gone Molly pours herself another glass of wine, offers him one. She knows- They've had the conversation about his lack of experience, but Molly says she doesn't hold it against him.

"It's actually quite romantic," she'd said when he told her. "Only being with one person and all that…"

Sherlock sincerely hopes she still feels that way when he's fumbling around in her bed tonight, but it turns out that with the right person- the right, patient, person- sex is not that hard to get the hang of after all.

_In fact, it's pretty bloody marvellous._

Molly laughs out loud when he tells her that, sweating and out of breath and still pressed inside her. Her small, soft body is fitted easily against his larger one.

"If you think that's marvellous," she says, "then imagine what else we can do…"

And the pair of them spend the rest of the night doing just that.

* * *

The next year goes by in a blur again, but this time it's a happy blur.

Molly and Grace move into Baker Street, and Sherlock discovers that a certain amount of domesticity suits him. In fact, he takes to having someone in his space a great deal more easily than he might have thought. Grace loves that the place is always messy; She adores his experiments, revels in the gruesomeness of the things he tries to prove. At first Sherlock is surprised, but he supposes he shouldn't be: Her mother is a pathologist, after all. And Molly has made no secret of her interest in Sherlock's cases; She still loves to watch him work, still enjoys the thrill of the chase.

By the time the first anniversary of her return rolls around, Sherlock's pretty bloody satisfied with the state of his affairs. As he's gotten older many of the fears and insecurities which used to cripple him have proved most manageable; losing friends and loved ones has also done its part in showing him how important holding onto life can be. He appreciates what he has with Molly now because he knows it's worth it in the end. Even having Grace about is worth it, though had you asked him ten years ago he would have sworn he'd rather die than share his home with a child. But she is her mother's daughter, and she is fond of him. The feeling of that- of knowing that one is loved- is extraordinarily satisfying. And for that reason, he tells Molly and Grace every day how happy he is that they are with him, no matter how bad he sometimes is at showing it-

Perhaps it is this satisfaction with his life which blinds him to what's happening with Molly.

_And blinded is what he most certainly is._

It starts with Molly's constant tiredness, a feeling of never quite being rested enough no matter how much she sleeps. But both she and Sherlock work all hours and at first he tells himself that that's what's wrong- After all, she's healthy as a horse, always eats well, always looks after herself. Nothing could hurt his Molly, he would never permit it. Then she starts putting weight, her belly no longer flat but soft and round, swelled against his lips when he kisses it; She runs to the loo a lot, something Sherlock and Grace tease her about good-naturedly though they think they probably shouldn't. She still gets cramps and her period though, so- much as they both want to think it- Sherlock knows she can't be pregnant. And besides, having another baby at her age is hazardous, far more so than Sherlock would ever countenance exposing her to. But she seems fine, she can work, she can go about her business. She doesn't seem to be sick. The worst thing that Sherlock thinks could have happened is that she's developed the hepatitis which runs on her mother's side of the family, and even that's a manageable condition-

He's examining a cadaver for Donovan in the middle of Holborn Tube Station, John's hands filled with the dead man's insides, when he first hears the word_ cancer_, in relation to Molly.

Grace calls him in a panic, crying, breathless, because her mum's gone into the GP's and she's listened at the door, and that's what Doctor Adu says she has, and she can't have that because mums don't get that, do they, Sherlock?

Sherlock manages to calm the girl down, has her put her mother on the phone. She sounds wobbly as she speaks to him, her throat tightened up from trying not to cry, but she says that Doctor Adu thinks it her most likely diagnosis, and that she's going to head into St. Bart's for more tests. They'll take care of one of their own quicker, she says, and the sooner they understand what's wrong with her, the quicker they can begin to fight it. Sherlock nods, speaks, creates entire, understandable sentences even, but it feels strangely unreal somehow. It feels hollow.

In fact, the one thing it makes him think of is his last conversation with Moriarty before his fall.

John must take him home- the case is forgotten- and for the next week he and Molly and Grace live on tenterhooks, waiting every day to hear back from the hospital. How anyone could bear to do this for weeks or months, as other people apparently do, Sherlock cannot imagine. The news, when it comes, comes in an inauspicious answering machine message; The woman on the other end knows Molly and she knows she wants to know her diagnosis, as well as her what her options are. Molly confirms through the message that what she has is ovarian cancer, but she has to go into St. Bart's to find out just how far along it is. She trudges in, Grace in school, Sherlock at her elbow, and they both sit in a very white room and listen to a very calm woman tell them that Molly is more than likely going to die. Because the usual treatments are surgery but that's not an option, the doctor tell her: The disease has spread too quickly and they cannot take all of it out. That leaves her with the a course of partial removals through surgery and then chemo, both of which Molly agrees to-

She cries all the way home in the cab and Sherlock holds her, tries to comfort her despite his many, many, many shortcomings in that area.

Grace comes home from school, takes one look at her mother, and bursts into tears because she knows something is wrong and before he knows it, Sherlock is trying to calm her too.

_He does not succeed._

The next six months pass by both incredibly quickly and incredibly slowly. The surgeries are less successful than the doctors had hoped- the disease is riddling Molly like a pestilence- while the chemo doesn't seem to make a dent. Molly stays cheerful through it all, tries to take care of everyone around her. This time it's Sherlock who sees her looking sad when nobody's watching, and the sense of loss, of pain and rage and helplessness, is more than he thinks he can bear. So he takes cases, tries to get out of the house. Tries to shield Molly and Grace from his temper. The time away from them though seems precious, unsalvageable, and so he cuts back the hours, elects to stay home again. But being at home is torture, not because being with his family's not wonderful but because it is. Every second spent with them feels like its been ripped, gouged from his fingers and no matter what he does Sherlock can't seem to make time stand still.

_He hates everything and he loves everything._

Some cowardly, hurting, terrified part of him- the part that whispers he should start using again- wants it to be over so he can stop feeling this… All of this.

When that comes he calls John and his best friend brings the kids over, gives Molly a break from looking after the family.

John minds Jen, Grace and Alex while Molly and Sherlock enjoy what time alone they have.

* * *

When her hair falls out, she asks him if he thinks her ugly.

He replies that he could never do so, he grew up with Mycroft's unconscionably massive head and ego and has thus seen what true hideousness is.

She giggles at the joke, but that little laugh makes her breathless, tires her. She is spent after it.

And it is in that moment that Sherlock realises- accepts- that she is going to die.

* * *

When it comes, it's quiet. Gentle._ Like her_.

He wakes up one morning and she's not breathing, though she has a smile on her face and she is not yet cold.

Sherlock refuses to believe the paramedic who calls it, makes John come over and check her. When his friend confirms what the young woman from the ambulance tells him, he wrecks the room in his rage. Grace got herself up for school that morning, and thus doesn't witness his behaviour: Sherlock is profoundly thankful for this fact when the first shock of his rage passes, though it's about the only positive thing he can feel. People descend upon Baker Street like an invading army. Neighbours, friends, relatives, as if they have any business here at all. Sherlock takes it for as long as he can for Grace's sake, holds her hand as people tell her they're sorry for her trouble.

He waits until she's asleep to slip out of the house and find a dealer.

He waits until the darkest, deepest moment of night before he attempts to introduce the drugs into his veins.

He places the needle against his arm, waiting, longing, jonesing for the oblivion it will bring. He's amazed he's held out this long, but his willpower is spent. He feels the prick of the needle, the pressure of the plunger beneath his thumb as he prepares to greet Zion-

_Sherlock,_ he hears Molly say,_ Sherlock, I didn't leave you for you do to this._

_Don't insult all the people who love you by being such an almighty git._

A memory comes unbidden then, her in St. Bart's the morning John and Mary brought him in from the crack house and made him pee in a cup for her. The sharp sting of her slaps to his face as she demanded he apologise to all the people who loved him for disregarding them, for squandering his gifts. For a moment the pain is so real and so clear that he could almost be reliving it, and Sherlock thinks disjointedly that he'd let her slap him silly all day, every day, if it meant she would come back to him. But she can't, she won't, because death is the one journey you truly don't return from. There's no Lazarus plan this time, no homeless network, no game afoot which means he wins. She's gone, and she's gone, and she's gone and she's gone and she won't come back again- She'll never come back again-

He slips into Baker Street, still sober, and finds Grace asleep on the couch.

She tried to stay up for him.

He picks her up and places her in her bed and then he rings John; Ten minutes later Watson's at the door.

They drink and they talk and they remember, they remember Molly and her jumpers and her jokes and the time she asked Sherlock whether he thought she was a drunk and for the third time in their friendship John watches Sherlock Holmes cry.

* * *

He doesn't realise until twelve months after her death that things have changed.

_And by the time he has, she's already gone and he can't undo it, even though he wants to (wants it so much)_.

But still, he can see the differences in him, in who he is now against who he was when he first met her. He can see the improvements she made, and though it hurts to see them, it feels good to remember them too. Grace stays with him and he adopts her, moves her into John's place so she'll have some stability. Having Jen and Alex around her, both of whom lost their mother, really, really helps. John huffs and puffs, makes jokes about how people really will talk now, but the arrangement works well for both of them and in time it seems like they've never been apart at all. It's all very, very… familiar, in a surprisingly good way. John dates, though he does it discretely for his kids' sake; Three Continents Watson cannot, however, be consigned to obscurity indefinitely and eventually he meets and marries a lovely fellow doctor named Violet.

Sherlock thinks her suitable, but not impressive.

_Nobody will ever be as impressive to him as the first Mrs. Watson._

In time though, he comes to be… used to Violet. And the children certainly warm to her. Sherlock thinks it good and right but he knows he will not follow John's example; That a creature like he fell in love once is miracle enough. He will not sully that by attempting an encore.

_And even if he wished to, Molly- like his feelings for her- was one of a kind._

And so he lives his life, case by case, moment by moment. The funny detective in the silly hat, the boffin of the papers and the friend of John Watson. When Grace moves out at eighteen she asks whether he'll find someone new- she worries about him being lonely- but he tells her no. She, like her mother, is irreplaceable. _And loneliness doesn't bother him. _

She smiles at the sentiment, though she doesn't understand it yet.

_It is,_ Sherlock reflects,_ the joy of being young._

And so he stares out his window at the sunshine and remembers the only woman who mattered, in the end. The woman who always will.

_Thank you, Molly Hooper_, he thinks as Grace says farewell to him.

He knows it's probably ludicrous, this constant sentiment he harbours in his chest.

He feels the echo of how he knows Molly would answer murmur inside him however, and in that moment he is content.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you... Is enjoyed the right term? Whatever you thought, please let me know. And thanks for reading.

Hobbits away, hey!


End file.
